Sour Cherry
by brenda macia
Summary: The girl with the ponytail. That's what Soap called her before he knew her real name. She was nineteen and had chapped lips. SoapxOC


**Decided to repost this. Please, tell me what you think. :)**

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><p><strong>Sour Cherry<strong>

**Part I  
><strong>

He saw her standing by the door surrounded by a group of friends. She looked small next to those people, smiling and nodding along, but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. Dressed in a white tank top and jeans, brown hair up in a ponytail, she didn't seem old enough to be here. A girl with the body of a woman. John felt ashamed to look at her like that, to notice that she was slim, but curvy and that the black strap of her bra on her pale skin was somehow alluring. She talked then, laughed, and his shame only grew bigger for her laugh was that of a fifteen year old. He looked away, ordered another drink. And though he felt like a dirty, old pervert, he set his gaze on her again.

This time he paid attention to her face; detailed lines that formed her jaw, lips that needed a bit more of color and a small nose. He couldn't properly tell the color of her eyes, not from this distance, but from what he managed to gather without having to squint, she had brown eyes. It could be just the light, though. For a moment he sat there, drinking his whiskey, bothered by the fact he didn't know what color her eyes were.

It was when a woman sat next to him that he realized he was in trouble.

The woman had the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen, short red hair, and light freckles on her face that made her look adorable. The black dress she wore fit her nicely, and she had to be in her mid twenties. She was stunning, and he could feel her eyes on him every now and then. But he could only stare at the girl with the ponytail. He sighed. Stared at his drink as he tried to figure out what was happening to him. He was thirty-five. He shouldn't be going through a crisis now.

And who knows, maybe it wasn't a crisis at all. Maybe he craved the touch of someone who didn't know any better. Because he was sure that the girl with the ponytail had a bunch of dreams and hopes and plans. He was sure she had imagined her entire future without a single care in the world. Rubbing his temple he realized that, no, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything. For all he knew, she could've lived through tragedy just like he had lived. He took one last sip from his drink, and then he took one last look at her.

And she looked back

He felt like a boy, caught doing something wrong. But she looked at him and tilted her head to the side a little, hands on her hips. She smiled at him, showed her teeth and he gave her what he hoped was a smile. His heart beat a little faster, and he decided he had enough for one night. He paid for his drinks, got up from the stool and made his way to the exit, missing the girl's frown. It wasn't until he was at the parking lot, grabbing the car keys from his pocket that he heard her voice again.

"Hey," she said, approaching him. The way she walked made her ponytail swing from side to side.

A million thoughts went through John's head in a matter of seconds. Why was she here? What was he supposed to do? Had he bothered her with all the staring? Of course he had. Should he apologize?

He was ready to do so when she stretched out her hand.

"I'm Melissa."

He shook her hand. "John."

"It's safe to assume you're leaving?" she asked, pointing to the keys in his hand. He nodded. "Can you give me a ride?"

Blood running though his veins, trepidation making its way to his gut. He frowned. "Nobody ever taught you not to ride with strangers?"

She smiled. "Ah, but you're not a stranger."

"I'm sure we've never met before, girl."

"Maybe not in this life. Who's to say you were not my friend in some other life?"

Ah, great. He knew there was something about her.

She was crazy.

"Say, a very good friend who used to give me a ride home every day?" she raised her eyebrows, smiled a bit as she tried to convince him.

John shook his head, smiling as well. How could he not? Perhaps he was a bit cruel to think of her as crazy. Quick to judge. Truth be told, he was a bit fascinated with her boldness. And completely annoyed by her innocence. If he were a killer, she would've won the prize for easiest and dumbest prey.

"Go home, kid," he said.

She shrugged, "I'm trying to."

"You shouldn't even be here. Fake ID, I'm guessing?"

She folded her arms. "Don't know what you're talking about," she said, losing the pose and laughing at the lie.

"Why don't you ask one of your friends to take you home?"

"Didn't come with friends."

"The group you were with inside the bar?"

"Met them here."

"Well, there you have it. I'm sure one of them won't bother giving you a ride."

"They all came in one car-there's no room for me. Oh, c'mon, I really don't like walking."

"And how is that my problem?"

She laughed. "Fine, I get it. No need to be so cruel."

Throwing her hands up, she started to walk away, still with the playful smile decorating her face.

And all John saw was that girl asking for someone else to give her a ride home and putting herself in harm's way. He sighed. Opened the door to his car and said, "get in."

She walked back to him, ponytail swinging from side to side.

She explained where she lived to him, always making sure to include a silly detail that he did not care about such as the smell of cotton candy that took over the small bakery in front of her house or how fast her plants seemed to grow.

Somewhere along her rambling, she pulled her legs up on the car seat, bringing her knees to her chest. From the driver seat, it looked like she was being choked by the seat belt, but she turned her head to look at him and he set his eyes on the road again.

The next few minutes were spent in silence and he was more than thankful for that. He wasn't the talkative type, and she talked about things he did not understand. Past lives and tarot reading, ghosts of lovers who died in her house-he didn't know how to respond to that. Apparently a husband, enraged for walking in on his wife with another man, locked them up in the bedroom and set the house on fire. It was the biggest tragedy to ever happen in the neighborhood, and nobody really knew the truth. The couple could've easily jumped out of the balcony from the second floor since it wasn't very high. Worst case scenario they'd end up with sprained ankles. But they remained inside the house as the fire consumed everything, turning furniture to ashes and bodies to coal.

The man who started it all, the husband, got ran over by a car as he tried to run away. His name was Charles, and he spent two weeks in the Hospital in agonizing pain before he died. The doctors said he was insane, and that he claimed his wife, Rosa, had not died in the fire for she was there with him every night, sitting at the edge of his bed. She'd lie on top of him, and he'd throw up at the smell of burned flesh while she smiled and kissed his face.

"And you don't mind living in that same house?"

Melissa shook her head. "Why should I? Living people scare me way more. If there are any ghosts in my house then they're very quiet."

"You're a weird one, girl."

"You think?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

He smiled, turned left at the end of the street and gave her a quick glance. "How old are you really?"

Se closed her eyes, let her lips turn into a mischievous little grin and said, "I'm ten, mister. I'm a lost little girl who needs help going home. Please be good to me?"

"Very funny," he said, his tone that of someone who's not joking around. He tried to pretend the last words she uttered didn't bother him. Please be good to me. These words kept ringing in his head, knocking on the walls of his brain. He couldn't help the thoughts, not when she smelled of soap and lavender and carried herself in such way that was almost obscene.

"Why does age have to matter? I'm old enough to know where I'm going, why do I need to prove it?"

"Being old enough to know where you're going doesn't necessarily mean you're going the right way."

"And?"

"You need guidance."

"What if I find someone who guides me to my own doom?"

"Find someone you trust."

"But trust doesn't do anything to me. We think we can trust someone and that blows up right in our faces."

"So to sum it up, you're not telling me your real age, are you?"

She laughed. "Fine. I'm nineteen."

Nineteen. This girl was nineteen. What the bloody fuck was he doing?

"How you managed to fool anyone with that face of yours is beyond me."

"Am I supposed to feel offended or...?"

"You don't look twenty-one, Melissa. You don't even look older than seventeen."

She folded her arms. "Yeah, that's always been a problem."

"How'd you manage to get drinks, huh? Is that why you befriended those people?"

"Nah, I don't drink."

He laughed a little. "Then what were you doing in a bar?"

"Just wanted to get out of the house, meet people who didn't know a single thing about me."

"Can relate to that."

"In that case-oh, here, here! That's my house."

He stopped in front of a small, simple house with walls covered in vines and a garden full of different plants. As she had told him, the balcony that could've saved the lives of a young couple was indeed not that far from the ground.

She undid the seat belt and looked at him. "Look, I know you were kind enough to give me a ride, but would it be okay if I abused your kindness just a little bit more?"

No, he should've said. No, take the chance and go because I might just eat you up if you let me.

"What do you need?" he said instead.

"Well, there's this chest in my living room full of things from my childhood and stuff, and it's taking up space. I wanted to move it upstairs, but it's too heavy. Could you move it for me? I swear it's the last thing I'll ever ask from you."

Her voice was so pure, and her smile so genuine...What choice did he have?

The inside of her house had wooden floors and white walls. There was a vase full of roses on the center of the coffee table, and several books scattered around. There was no TV, he noticed, but a notebook could be found next to the vase of roses. There was a distinctive scent of coffee and most of the furniture seemed to belong in another time period. Victorian, to be more specific. Ahead of him, Melissa stopped and bent over to untie her shoes. A pair of black Converse, and for a brief second, before he turned to look the other way, he drowned in the way her tank top rose up and put the small of her back on display. For a second, he caught a glimpse of her underwear. The piece of clothing was teal colored, and he could see a small scar above the waistline. For a second, for one tiny second, all he wanted to do was grab her by that ponytail and throw her against a wall; kiss those lips that could use a bit more of color and hear her whisper his name. For a second, he almost gave in. But he set his gaze on the corner of the room, found the chest that needed to be moved. It wasn't that big, but it did look heavy. Part of him wondered what kind of childhood stuff were stashed in there. Probably dolls and old drawings. He wanted to know what they'd tell him about her, what kind of secrets he'd find.

When she called his attention again, the shoes had been set near the staircase and she was walking barefoot around the living room. She smiled and went to stand next to him, a small hand on his arm.

"I tried lifting that thing so many times, almost broke my back."

"I'm not surprised."

With her hands on her hips now, she asked, "what's that supposed to mean?"

And with a liberty he didn't bother to ask for, he took both her hands away from her hips and made her stretch out her arms. Then he brought them closer, and held both her wrists with only one hand. She laughed, and he smiled. "It's a wonder you didn't break your arms."

"I'll have you know," she started, drawing her arms back. "That I can be very strong."

"Who am I to disagree?"

Save for a few instructions and a small gasp from her when he lifted the chest as if it were made of paper, they remained silent. She went ahead of him, climbing up the stairs, and opened the door to her bedroom. It was small, and the bed was positioned in the center of the room. A mirror hanging by the wall on the left, and a Victorian lamp on the bedside table. A simple wardrobe on the right, and she pointed to a spot next to it and he placed the chest there, carefully.

"Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it."

But he needed a cigarette.

Outisde, a car backfired and she jumped. John was more than glad that she didn't see that he, too, jumped. His hand searched for a gun that wasn't there, and he had to swallow the urge to tell her to find cover. He closed his eyes as she went to stand outside on the balcony, leaning against the rail. He had been dealing with this a lot lately-every little thing seemed to bring him back to the battlefield, even the shattering of a glass. When he felt he had calmed down, he went to stand by her side.

"It was just a car."

He nodded.

Giggling, she turned to him and said, "that actually scared me! Here," she grabbed his hand and brought it to her chest, placed it just above her left breast. "See how fast my heart is beating?"

He could feel her heart beating against his palm. He could feel the fabric of her bra poking through her tank top, and he could see the outline of her small breasts under the light the moon casted over them. She smelled of perfume and sweat, and he wanted to get lost in that smell. He wanted to get lost in her. Something about her, the crazy talks, the ghost stories. He doubted she was as innocent as she looked, but then again, maybe she was. And then she placed her hand on top of his, and the size difference became painfully evident. One wrong move with this girl, and he would break her. Break her bones, rip her flesh and shatter her heart. He looked straight into her big, brown eyes and she smiled the same smile she'd been giving him all night, as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind. He couldn't help his grin as he drew his hand back, shaking his head.

"It's really late," he told her.

"So?" she asked.

"I gotta go."

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

"Why should I?"

"I make the best coffee in the world, that's why."

"Tempting, but tomorrow is not a good day."

"Ah, that's the point! Good day, bad day...my coffee will make you feel better, promise!"

"That's not what I meant."

"Come on then, and I'll let you out."

They made their way downstairs in silence. Her ponytail was a little loose now, and her feet were a bit dirty from walking around barefoot.

She opened the front door, and pouted as he went outside.

"You know where I live, so if you change your mind..."

He chuckled. Had to. This was much too surreal. "You offer coffee to all the strangers you meet, girl?"

"Just the ones I like."

He stepped closer to her, and she had to look up to meet his eyes. "And just how many do you happen to like?"

"Not many. Most aren't as good to me as you were tonight."

He nodded. "It was nice meeting you, Melissa."

"Nice meeting you, John."

And right when he was about to get in the car, he heard her yelling from her spot at the front door.

"Don't forget about the coffee! I'll bake a cake, too!"

He waved her off and got in the car. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

Because he could still feel her heart beating under his palm, and he could still see the outline of her small breasts, and the scar above the waistline of her teal colored panties. Because his pants felt a little too tight. Because he'd think of her when he went to bed tonight.

And because he knew, oh he knew, that he would see her again tomorrow.

**The Interlude**

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><p>Waking up was a pain.<p>

His head hurt, his limbs ached and there was a pounding heart coming close to a heart attack. He looked down, settled his hand on his crotch, pressed and groaned. This was going to be a bad day and the morning wood didn't help. He sighed, slid his hands underneath his boxers and freed himself. The movements were fast and his release felt more like relief than pleasure, but at some point he closed his eyes and thought of the girl from last night, and her name was at the tip of his tongue, uttered in the middle of a moan. Once it was over, he stayed still, staring at the ceiling and craving a cigarette that wasn't within his reach.

The sticky mess on his bare chest didn't bother him as much as it should, and he caught himself thinking of her again, feeling like a jerk for wondering if she was a virgin, or if she could give good head, and the idea that she _couldn't _only made his blood boil even more, the idea that he could teach her, guide her through it, tell her what to do and watch as she opened her pretty little mouth as wide as she could to swallow him whole, the idea of having her, even if she _wasn't_ a virgin, drove him insane.

He took a look at the clock.

Eight in the morning.

He got up, the mess on his chest bothered him enough now, and he headed straight to the shower. The warm water didn't help with the ache, and he couldn't stop thinking about what he should do. There was the obvious answer; call his family, let them know he came back, let them he was alive, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. No. His mother would get her hopes up, state that it was over and he was never going back to the guns and bombs and deaths. He knew better, and he knew, oh he knew that if he went back this time he wouldn't get out. It was a feeling. Perhaps he didn't have it in him anymore. He couldn't crush his mother's heart like that.

Mind wrapped around the girl again. Melissa. Maybe he was projecting his frustration on her. Maybe he enjoyed fooling himself. She was a girl. Just a girl. Small breasts and long hair, she knew nothing about the world, about _his_ world.

And maybe that's what he needed.

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><p>He didn't give a damn. Not anymore. Here's the thing, when he walked back into her life the next day, he knew he was in trouble. She greeted him, a crooked smile on her face and a white summer dress on her body. She wasn't wearing any shoes, and her hair was loose. She hugged him as if they were old friends, and John didn't have the chance to react. She felt light against him, and he patted her on the back. And then she looked up at him, her brown eyes locking on his blue ones and with the mischief of a child, kissed him on the mouth. It was nothing big, just a tease, but considering he had spent the morning jerking off while thinking about her, he didn't exactly know what to do with himself. She giggled, took his hand and lead the way. He didn't get to say a word. On the other hand, she wouldn't stop talking.<p>

Trouble had nothing to do with silly stories or strong coffee.

John was reasonable. He liked to think so, anyway. He was a decent guy, served his country, and tried to be a good person. When he was a little boy, he envied those people who could write horror tales, make up stories and communicate through words. He was never good with them. No, words always clogged on his throat and left him alone to choke. But he could have written an entire novel about what had happened that day. He could have written about the way she walked, and how he could see her panties through the fabric of her dress. He could also see her breasts, no bra this time, and he couldn't sop thinking about the morning he had hd and how much he had wanted her there with him.

He could have written about the way she cared about things, such as her plants or the amount of coffee one needs to function properly. She had a tendency to squint, he noticed, especially when she needed to read something written in small letters. And when she did that, she looked adorable, looked full of innocence and John felt, once again, like a bastard. But he could have written about the way she touched him and kissed him randomly. He could have written about her heat. Agonizing heat that he felt from her, invading his skin, lighting up his entire fucking mind. He could have written about how they drank coffee, and yes, her coffee was one of the best, and how they spent a few minutes talking about nothing at all.

She wondered about his scar, he changed the subject. He asked her about her parents, she told him she lived alone, that she had been alone for a long while. And no, her parents weren't dead, they were alive and happy and not really giving a damn about her. When he asked why, she grinned. She had run away from home when she was fifteen with a boy named Carl Angelo. He was much older than she was, and her parents had warned her to keep away from him or else she would face the consequences. She took off with him in the middle of the night, and they got out of the city, found their way to Kansas. It lasted a month. When she came home, her mother was thankful, but her father grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out.

_ You wanted out, didn't you, Melissa? _

Oh, his question had lingered in the air while her mother's sobs echoed through the room. Yes, she wanted out, she got out. As always, luck was on her side. She found comfort in a harmless old man named Juan Gonzales. He was sixty-two, a painter, and he took her under his wing. The deal was to let him paint her. Sneaky old bastard, always with the nude paintings. But he never touched her, respected her privacy and taught her Spanish. Juan died, and since he didn't have any family, he left his belongings to her. That's how she ended up with such a nice house like the one she currently resided. The tragedy didn't bother her. She had made that pretty clear before. Two people died in her house, and yet, she found it romantic.

John could have easily written about how crazy she was.

He didn't.

He didn't write anything.

Because at some point, when they were running out of topics to talk about, and when John realized he had stayed more than he should have, she kissed him again. She kissed him with the ferocity of a tigress, and truth be told, she acted like one. She kissed him, stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. It felt so different than the kisses she had been giving him, those pecks on the lips were nothing compared to this. Her body against his, he couldn't resist it. He held her by the waist, pulled her closer, and kissed her back. His tongue on hers, he could feel her smile. It soon proved to be a bad idea, but she pressed, and that's when he got his common sense back. He pulled away, he was breathing heavily and her cheeks were red. They were still in the kitchen, standing by the door frame. John took a deep breath, tried to pull himself back together.

"You okay?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, no, I'm not-you're a bloody kid and I'm a fucking pervert, I'm not okay-"

She made him look at her, smiled, grabbed his hand and brought it closer to her, underneath her dress, all the while looking straight into his eyes, smiling her crooked smile.

John felt the softness of her cotton panties.

He felt how wet she was.

She moved a bit closer, not once taking his hand away.

"Let me show you how much of a kid I am."

John let go of his self control right there.

She was a fucking tigress and she was about to eat him up.


End file.
